by Jessica Beck
“He’s not the only one you spanked,” Grace said softly.
“I know, but she shouldn’t have said anything, especially while I was trying to make a point.”
“I agree with you a hundred percent,” Grace said.
“But you still think I need to apologize.”
“I never said that,” Grace said as her gaze stayed steadily on me.
“No, but you’re thinking it.”
She smiled. “Suzanne, how on earth could you know what I’m thinking?”
“We’ve been friends for a long time, remember? Okay, I guess it’s time for me to go eat a little crow.”
“Sometimes it’s the only meal we can get,” she said. “I’ll give you some privacy, so at least you won’t have to do it in front of an audience.”
“Thanks. This won’t take long. I’ve grown pretty adept at saying I’m sorry.”
I walked into the kitchen, but before I could say a word, Momma said, “Suzanne, I owe you an apology. I barked out at you as a reaction, not as a consciously formed thought. You’re a grown woman, and I trust your judgment to use harsh words if they are required to get someone’s attention. Do you forgive me?”
I couldn’t help myself; I hugged her as I said, “Only if you promise to forgive me, too. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“Well, it certainly got my attention,” she said as she pulled away. “How did Ray take it?”
“He wasn’t too pleased with me, but at least it might have deflected a little heat away from Emma. I understand the way he feels, but he needs to let her lead her own life. Emma’s everything I said she was, only he seems to have trouble seeing it.”
“It’s not easy for a parent to let go,” she said.
“I know. Do you think I owe him an apology?”
“I doubt it would do much good at this point,” Momma said. “You gave him some things to think about, and I’ve got a feeling Ray Blake is going to have a pretty sleepless night ahead of him.”
“How do you know what I said to him?”
She smiled. “I eavesdropped, of course. Suzanne, this is still my house, no matter who else is living here. Now, why don’t we serve dessert by the fire? I know the snow’s stopped, but it would be nice to eat in the glow from the Christmas tree and the flickering flames of the fireplace. I so love this time of year.”
“It must be hereditary, because so do I,” I said. “What are we having?”
“I made a trifle,” she said.
“Yum. Should we divvy it up, or should we just grab three spoons and attack it all at once?”
“I think plates and spoons are in order,” she said.
“Spoilsport,” I said with a laugh as I helped her grab three plates, some spoons, and a handful of napkins. Momma got the trifle, and after plating up three portions, we carried them into the living room, where Grace was sitting staring at the fire.
When she looked up at us, I could swear that she’d been crying, and I wondered what had triggered it in her. I wouldn’t ask, though. I’d learned long ago that if Grace wanted to share something with me, she’d do it on her own schedule, and not mine. It had been a hard lesson to learn not to comfort my friend when she was in such obvious need of it, but learn it I had.
“Who wants trifle?” I said, trying to pump a little joy into my voice.
“That looks wonderful,” she said, the tears now wiped away as she took a plate from me.
“I’ve always loved a good trifle,” my mother said.
“Me, I’ll eat whatever dessert you decide to make that day,” I said. “Just no donuts. I sample enough of those as I’m working to last me the rest of the day.”
“You probably shouldn’t sample your wares so much, Suzanne,” my mother said with a smile.
“There are a great many things I shouldn’t do, but I can’t seem to help myself,” I replied.
Momma laughed, and it filled the room with the warmth of its glow more than the fireplace could. “That does seem to be a family curse, doesn’t it?”
We finished our desserts as we watched the fire, then Momma collected the dishes and said, “If you ladies will excuse me, I got a new book today that I’m dying to read, so I’m going to call it an early night.”
After she excused herself, Grace looked over at me and said, “She did that on purpose. She wants us to have time to talk.”
“She saw you crying, too,” I said gently. I was walking a fine line here, and I knew it, but I wanted Grace to know that we both cared about her, and we wanted to help her if we could.
“That was nothing,” she said.
I shook my head. “I know nothing when I see it.” She grinned at me, and I suddenly realized how ridiculous it must have sounded. “You know what I mean.”
“If it’s all the same to you, what I’d really like to talk about is what we found at Darlene’s apartment, and what Cynthia told us. The fact that Muriel is broke should come up, too.”
“It’s a lot to process for one day, isn’t it?” I said. “Where should we start?”
“Definitely with Cynthia,” Grace said. “First off, was she telling the truth about the fight between Wilma and Darlene?”
“Why would she lie?” I asked. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that she hadn’t been telling us the truth.
“Who knows? Maybe she’s hiding a fight she had with Darlene herself. Or maybe Wilma’s done something to her, and this is her way of getting her back.”
I thought about that, but it just didn’t add up in my mind. “I don’t know, I had the feeling Cynthia was telling us the truth.”
“I did, too,” Grace said, “but we can’t accept everything we hear at face value. We have to question everything people tell us.”
“So how do we prove if it’s true or not?”
Grace frowned. “There’s only one way I can think of. We have to ask one of the other beauticians.”
“If you think I’m getting back into one of those chairs, you’ve lost your mind. It’s your turn this time, Grace.”
She shook her head. “I was thinking of something a little more subtle. Why don’t we take a dozen donuts by the salon in the morning, and we can question one of them then.”
“Do you think I should really leave Emma by herself so soon after what happened?” I wasn’t sure how she’d react, and I didn’t know if I wanted to know, either.
“What better way to show her that you trust her? I’m sure she needs a little ego boost after being marched over here this evening like a child.”
“You know what? You’re absolutely right,” I said. “That sounds like a good plan.”
“Now, how about the things we found at Darlene’s?”
As we put our collected piles on the coffee table in front of the fireplace, I said, “I’m beginning to have second thoughts about taking all of this. We could have really mucked up a police investigation this time.”
Grace said, “I don’t see how. Chief Martin should have searched Darlene’s room the day she died, and if he hasn’t gone by there yet to look around, do you honestly think he ever will? Somebody’s got to dig into this, Suzanne. Why not us?”
“Why not?” I echoed. I wasn’t sure the chief would agree with our line of reasoning—and I knew Jake would have protested—but then again, he wasn’t in the picture anymore, was he? It was up to me and my friends to figure out if that deadly candy cane had been meant for Darlene or Muriel, and more importantly, why someone had decided to kill either one of them.
I picked up the photograph of me, then felt my fingers shake as I stared at it. “This was taken in front of the donut shop,” I said. “And it was right around Easter.”
Grace glanced at the photo. “How can you be so sure?”
“Look through the window. I have poster-sized Easter eggs hanging up behind the counter.”
She looked a little closer, then nodded. “I see them now. What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s pretty clear that she took this p
icture nine months ago.”
“I know that, I can count as well as you can. I just don’t understand why.”
“Join the club,” I said as I pushed the photo away. I refused to touch the lock of hair, though it did look like it could have easily belonged to Max. The five tattered bills lay there, and they had a story to tell, I was sure of it, if only I was smart enough to figure out what it was. I examined each bill in turn, and had just about given up finding a clue when I saw a three-digit number carefully hand-lettered on the edge of the back of one of the bills. It looked familiar, and in a second, I realized why. Searching through the business cards I’d found in Darlene’s purse, I found the perfect match to the number on the bill.
As I turned the card over to see who it belonged to, Grace asked me, “Suzanne, did you find something that I missed?”
“I think I may have found another clue,” I said, as I stared at the name embossed on the other side.
BLUEBERRY SURPRISES
These blueberry treats are perfect on cold days. They promise to warm you up, especially if you snack on them with some coffee or hot chocolate.
INGREDIENTS
• 1 package blueberry muffin mix (7 ounces)
• 3⁄4 cup flour
• 3⁄4 cup buttermilk
• 1 egg, beaten
• Fresh blueberries (optional, and certainly not required, but they make a nice addition to the treats)
DIRECTIONS
Add the flour to the powdered muffin mix, then add the beaten egg and buttermilk. Stir everything together until the dry ingredients are all absorbed into the liquid, but don’t overstir the mix.
In canola oil heated to 360°F, drop in half-teaspoon-sized bits of batter. Turn them once as they brown, then drain on paper towels and add powdered sugar if desired.
CHAPTER 9
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” she said. “Who does the card belong to? And how does it tie into the murder?”
I studied it another second, then said, “I’m not positive it’s connected to Darlene’s death, but it is kind of fishy, wouldn’t you say?”
“If you’re not going to tell me whose name is on it, give me the card so I can see for myself, Suzanne.”
I held it up long enough for her to read the name on it.
She whistled. “Why would Darlene have a card from Lester Moorefield? I didn’t even realize Lester had business cards.”
Lester was the morning news voice on our radio, local station WAPS. I doubt they had more than a thousand listeners, and yet Lester prided himself on breaking big scoops over our newspaper. He and Ray had a heated rivalry, and each one loved to beat the other to a story.
But that didn’t explain why Darlene had a hundred-dollar-bill in her possession that matched an odd, three-digit number written on the back of Lester’s business card.
“I know there’s got to be a reason for this,” Grace said. “But I can’t imagine for the life of me what it is.”
“There’s only one way we’re going to find out,” I said as I tapped the card on the table. “We’re going to have to ask him.”
“That’s not going to be fun, is it?” Grace said.
“I completely understand if you want to take a pass on it.”
“Are you kidding? I signed on for the whole investigation. Maybe between the two of us we’ll be able to come up with a way to question him tomorrow morning after his shift on the radio is over.”
“Does that mean you’re coming to work with me again tomorrow?” I asked as I glanced at the clock. It was just after nine, and technically past my bedtime, but with Grace staying with us until the further notice, I’d found that I kept pushing my the hour back, and that meant less and less sleep for me.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said. “Suzanne, I don’t know how you and Emma do it every morning. Your schedule is already killing me.”
“You get used to it after a while,” I said, fighting back another yawn.
Grace matched mine, then said, “Okay, if you keep that up, you’re going to put me to sleep, too. You don’t have to stay up and baby-sit me, Suzanne. I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself.”
“I know you are,” I said. “I just hate to leave you alone.”
“With you and your mother upstairs, I feel safe here.”
I grinned at her. “Really? I doubt either one of us would be much help if there was trouble.”
“Just having two other people around is enough to ease my mind.” As I stood, she did, too, and Grace retrieved my softball bat from the corner by the door. “Besides, if somebody tries anything, I’m ready for them.”
“If you’re sure, then.”
“Go to bed, Suzanne.”
I did as she asked, and found myself falling asleep even as I tumbled into my bed.
* * *
The next morning, I crept downstairs and found Grace asleep on the couch. A blanket was falling off her shoulders and the softball bat was tucked firmly in her arms. I covered her back up, stoked the fire, and added another log, then grabbed a quick bowl of cereal and headed off to the donut shop.
To my surprise, the lights were all on when I got there, and I could see Emma working inside on her hands and knees, cleaning the painted concrete floor.
“Morning,” I said as I walked in, locking the door behind me. “Did we agree to come in early today?”
“No,” she said as she continued to scrub the floors of the dining area. “I just thought with all this snow we’ve been having, it might not be a bad idea to spruce the place up a little. Don’t worry, this isn’t on the clock.”
“If you’re here and you’re working, it’s on the clock,” I said, and then it hit me. “Emma, I don’t care what your father said, you don’t owe me anything, not restitution, and not extra hours of work.”
“He doesn’t even know I’m here,” she said, “but Suzanne, please don’t make me stop. I feel so bad about what happened, I have to do something, or I’m afraid I won’t be able to work here anymore.”
“You’d quit before you’d let me make you stop?” I asked.
“I don’t want to. I love working here, but if you don’t give me any choice, then yeah, I guess I’d have to leave.”
“Then work on,” I said as I stepped around her. “You missed a spot,” I added as I pointed to a place in the corner.
She started to get up when I said, “I’m kidding.”
“No, you’re right. I can see it from here.”
I hung my coat up in back, then grabbed a pair of rubber gloves and joined her.
She looked startled by my presence on the floor beside her. “You don’t have to do this. It’s my job.”
I took a sponge from the bucket and started wiping down a section of the floor she hadn’t hit yet. “Let’s just say you’re not the only one who should do penance for making a mistake.” As I wiped away some mud and a little grime, I said, “Besides, this kind of work can be really cleansing, you know?”
I watched her get my pun, and saw a smile break out of the tense gloom she’d been expressing a few minutes before. “Yeah, it’s really nice to be able to wipe away a problem, isn’t it?”
“A clean sweep, that’s what we need here. Now enough with the puns. Let’s finish this so we can start making donuts.”
“It’s tough being clever this early in the morning, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” I said as I wiped the last section we hadn’t hit yet. “Sometimes I feel like I wake up brilliant and get dumber by the minute as the day goes on.”
“I’m just the opposite,” she said. “I’m a night person, myself.”
“Then you really aren’t suited temperamentally for this job, are you?”
She grinned at me as we both stood. “That depends on how you look at it. I like to think of it as the night before, not the morning after.”
“Hey, as long as it gets you in here on time, I’m all for it.” As I took off the gloves and handed them to her, I said,
“You finish cleaning up, and I’ll get started on the cake donut batters.”
“I won’t be a minute,” she said.
She was as good as her word, and as I mixed the batters for our morning supply of cake donuts, Emma said, “Suzanne, in all seriousness, I love it here. I really do.”
“Me, too,” I agreed. “There’s really nothing else quite like it.”
“So,” she said as she looked down at my batter stations, each ready for their special ingredients. “Do you think I could try a new cake donut recipe today? I’ve been dying to try it, and this is the perfect chance.”
“Be my guest,” I said. “As soon as I’m done with these, the kitchen’s all yours.” As I mixed the ingredients for the old fashioneds, the plain cakes, the blueberry, pumpkin and whole wheat donuts, Emma began amassing an odd assortment of things for her own mix. I liked to experiment myself, and I was glad to see she was taking an interest in trying her own hand at coming up with new recipes. Sometimes it was tough offering enough things that were different to keep my customers out of a rut. I figured if I kept adding new items to the menu, they’d keep coming back to try them.
“Candy canes? Really?” I asked as I saw her crushing some of the candies in our mortar and pestle.
“You mind your donuts, and I’ll mind mine,” she said with a smile.
“Okay, but you’re cleaning the mess up.”
“Don’t I always?”
As I added different batters to the donut dropper and fried them, Emma left her batter for a few minutes and started helping me glaze mine after they’d been turned and pulled out of the fryer.
“I think I’m ready,” she said as she returned to her blend and put the finishing touches on her batter. I could see chunks of candy canes in the mix, and wondered how they’d turn out.
At least she’d made a small batch.
“Would you like to fry them yourself?” I asked as I handed her the stainless steel dropper. I’d rinsed it out in the sink, and it was now ready for her mix.
“No, I’d rather you do it, if you don’t mind.”
“I’d be glad to.” I spooned the batter into the dropper, and as I did, I caught the overwhelming scent of peppermint.
